


The Shape of You

by elldotsee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday Smut, Blow Job, Definitely at least Bi, Drunk John, Drunk Sex, Drunk Sherlock, Inspired by Music, John's Birthday, M/M, NotGay! John Watson, PWP, Slow Burn, Smut, inspired by song lyrics, pwp basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 13:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14021616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: In case you hadn't heard...John is DEFINITELY NOT GAY.But methinks he Doth Protest Too Much.Sherlock thinks so too.Many Happy Returns to John.





	The Shape of You

I stare across the crowded room, squinting slightly against pink and purple lights flashing in time to a pulsing bass line. I can barely make out the shapes of Mike, Molly, Harry and Greg, sitting casually at one of the tall tables near the back. I can, however, see the dark curly hair rising above everyone else’s, back ramrod straight, crisp white shirt glowing slightly in the colorful lighting. Greg had mentioned taking me out for a drink on my birthday a few days ago. I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived to see that he had also cajoled Mike, Molly and Harry to join but nearly fell over when I saw Sherlock sitting among them, looking for all the world as though he’d rather be elbow deep in a cadaver. He had relaxed slightly after the first drink, even taking off his coat and attempting small talk. I can’t help my smile now as I see long pale fingers waving in the air, as he engages in what appears to be an intense conversation now with Molly. I must remember to ask Greg how on earth he managed to get him here. And thank him. 

The clink of glass at my elbow startles me. I pay the bartender and carry the glasses carefully back to the table. Gin and tonic with a twist for the posh boy, draught beer for me. 

“Ah! There’s the birthday boy!” Greg practically shouts at me, clapping me on the back! “Many happy returns to him, right mates?” He stumbles a bit as he hoists himself back onto his barstool, singing a very off-key rendition of Happy Birthday. 

I set the drinks on the table and slide Sherlock’s in front of him. I feel, rather than hear, his deep chuckle and look up, surprised. I catch his eye and grin back, feeling dizzier than I should, considering I’ve only had one drink.   
“Alright?” I ask, more than a little surprised to see him seemingly enjoying himself. I narrow my eyes slightly to see if this is one of his “bits”- if he’s having us all on, only to laugh at us in a few minutes for being mere mortals, drunken idiots. But the smile seems genuine as he nods and I relax back into my stool. I take a long pull of my beer, relishing the feeling of the condensation against my warm palm. 

The table’s conversation picks up in liveliness over the next hour. Mike orders a round of shots, toasting to the “Bloody Birthday Boy!” I laugh and clink glasses all around, before tossing the tequila back, relishing the burn. As I squeeze the lime into my mouth, I can feel the burning gaze of my mad flatmate on the side of my face. I turn to scowl at him, not in any mood to be deduced right now, but my ire dies quickly at the look on Sherlock’s face. I’ve seen that look before, from girlfriends, as I grab them by the hand and pull them upstairs to my bedroom, all but wagging my eyebrows at them. It’s the “come hither” look. It’s simmering heat, pure desire, “I can’t wait to watch your pants hit the floor”. My brain stutters to a stop because it is currently directed at me from six feet of sculpted marble, in the form of my very male flatmate and I am Not Gay. I take a breath and glance away. Holy shit. I stick my hands in my pockets for discretion as I adjust. When I turn my head back, he has looked away, apparently immersed in the table’s conversation about…Made in Chelsea? Huh. I shake my head a bit, chanting in my head; Not Gay, Not Gay, Not Gay. 

Suddenly, Harry leaps to her feet, grabbing Molly and nearly toppling both stools.   
“Ohhh my gawd! I love this song!” She practically drags Molly off to the dance floor. Mike and Greg both laugh, a little too earnestly and follow them, but not before Greg grabs two more shots from a passing waitress and tosses them back in succession. 

“Deb moved out”, Sherlock murmurs at my elbow. 

I make a sympathetic sound in my throat, eyes following Greg’s retreating form, then turn to face Sherlock. In this arrangement, with him perched delicately on the worn leather stool and me standing a bit closer than is truly necessary, we are eye to eye. “Enjoying yourself?” He’s fidgeting, fingers drumming on the table and one foot jiggling impossibly fast. I tilt my head, trying to catch his eye. “Because if not…we can go…I know dancing probably isn’t high on your list---” 

He lurches abruptly to his feet, and for one ridiculous second I think he might be about to follow them out onto the dance floor. But he grabs his scarf from his coat pocket and ties it on deftly, then lifts the Belstaff off the back of the chair. He’s two steps away, swirling it around him, when he glances back over his shoulder. “John! Are you coming?” 

I grab my coat and close the gap between us in three steps (blasted short legs). It’s still early, and I was having a good time, but I’m not disappointed to head back to the flat. I’m surprised we managed to hold Sherlock’s attention this long, honestly, and that’s gift enough for me. I smile as I jog a bit to catch up with his long strides across the pavement. 

“Sherlock! Hold up! Wait, where are you going? Our flat is the other direction!” 

He cocks a grin over his shoulder, but slows his pace slightly so I can match his strides. “Not home, John. It’s your birthday! I know a place nearby.” 

We walk together in easy silence for a few more minutes until he abruptly stops at a nondescript heavy door, pulling it open and holding it for me. I grin as I pass him, the affects of the alcohol setting in and making me feel loose and warm. I can see in his face that he feels the same- his answering grin is boyish, mischievous. He catches me by the wrist and pulls me to the far corner, only a few tables away from the long bar. Even though it’s a Saturday night, it’s much quieter in here than the club we just left, with only a handful of locals sprinkled around the tables, chatting comfortably. 

“Shall I?” I tip my head towards the bar as he settles himself in, removing his coat and scarf once more. He nods, gesturing towards the bar with a sweep of his arm.   
“A beer for me too, John. Whatever you’re having is fine” 

I tilt my head to really look at him before I turn and walk to the bar to collect our drinks. He’s drunker than he’s letting on, probably thinking he can command his transport to metabolize alcohol quicker than the average bloke. Mad idiot, I think affectionately. I drum my fingers on the bar and let my gaze wander as the bartender pours our drinks. Our table is only a short distance away, but Sherlock is facing the opposite corner, so I allow myself a few moments of unabashed admiring. God, he’s gorgeous. My brain and cock are apparently in cahoots tonight, helpfully supplying this revelation. But it’s true, isn’t it? That curly mop of hair, artfully falling over his eyes, those cheekbones, the piercing maelstrom hidden inside his eyes. His lithe frame, taut muscles and skin so smooth, it looks to be carved of marble. The entire…shape of him is damn near perfect. And that ridiculously perfect cupids-bow mouth. I wonder what it tastes like…  
I snap my head around as the bartender sets down our beer. I hold up two fingers. “Tequila please. Two shots, ta.” I’m feeling bold, heat coursing through my blood and pooling between my legs. It’s the alcohol talking, I’m sure of it, but I suddenly need to know. I grab all four glasses and make my way back to the table with a confidence that I’m not sure I’m ready for.   
I set down the beer glasses and hand him one of the shots. He quirks an eyebrow at me, but a small smile tugs at his lips. Steady on, Watson. I shake some salt on the back of my hand, then hold up the shaker, offering. His smile reaches his eyes.   
“Thanks, John.” The deep rumble of his voice stirs something deep inside of me as I sprinkle the salt on his hand. I let my fingers brush against his for just a moment, watching him out of the corner of my eye. He watches our hands, not looking up.   
I clear my throat. “Ready?”   
His eyes jump up to mine, looking…guilty? I hold up my shot glass. “This.” Holding his gaze, I slowly lick the salt off of my hand and raise my shot glass to my lips. Without breaking eye contact, I tip my head back and feel my Adam’s apple bob as I swallow. He mirrors me, eyes widening slightly. I shiver as I suck on the lime. He’s still watching me, eyes blazing.   
“Van the Man.”  
He startles slightly, blinking a few times. “Excuse me?”   
I tick my head toward the jukebox nestled against the wall. “This song. Van the Man. Van Morrison. No?”   
He shakes his head, and leans sideways against the table. “Never heard of it. Them. Him?” His head cocks to the side.   
“Him.” I chuckle then hum along for a moment. He watches me with an amused smile as he sips his beer.   
I slide onto the chair next to him, angling so our knees are almost touching and take a sip of mine as well. Liquid courage. I sing along quietly, feeling the alcohol buzzing through me, making me feel a bit floaty.   
“Some people say  
You can make it on your own  
Oh you can make it if you try  
I know better now  
You can't stand up alone”  
Sherlock huffs a laugh, eyes twinkling. He slides off his stool, rubbing against my legs slightly until his feet touch the ground. He stands and steadies himself on the back of my chair, leaning over me. I can smell his aftershave, his deodorant, the very essence of him. He rumbles right in my ear, “Solomon Burke said, if you need me why don’t you call me”.   
I turn my head in surprise and our noses bump against one another. I freeze, caught between wanting to lose myself in those sea-glass eyes and wanting to pull away. Too much or too little? I can’t tell anymore.   
Sherlock straightens suddenly and turns, waving his hand over his shoulder. “Loo” he calls, as way of explanation, as he heads toward the sign marked “Men”. I watch him walk, a slight sway to his gait. I’m dizzy and realize I have been holding my breath. I exhale. Jesus. We’ve barely even touched and I’m swooning like a teenage girl. I grab my beer and swig the rest of it in two long gulps. I look over at Sherlock’s. He’s managed to finish his as well. No wonder he was swaying.   
Suddenly, he’s next to me. I hop off my stool, unwilling to let on that he startled me. But the ground isn’t as firm as it was earlier and I stumble, grabbing for the table. A pair of strong hands grip my elbows and I feel an even stronger torso pressed along the length of my side.   
“Alright, John?” His features are softened, and I detect a slight lisp as he breathes my name. We’re so close, he’s nearly gone cross-eyed trying to look at me. God, we’re a pair of drunk idiots right now, aren’t we?   
I nod and grab his elbow, steering him towards the door. “C’mon. Let’s go.” 

Once outside, he heads toward the street, intent on calling a cab, but I tug his arm and practically drag him around the corner of the building. I crowd him against the rough brick wall and hold my finger against his lips. He cocks an eyebrow at me and mock-gasps. The expression is so ridiculous, I burst out laughing. He joins me and after a few moments, we’re both breathless and leaning back against the wall.  
“Ah.” I gasp out. “This is…we’re…ridiculous.”   
He lifts his head from where he’s hunched over slightly, resting his hands on his knees. His entire face breaks into a smile and we close the distance between us instantly. I press him up against the wall and smash our mouths together. It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s hungry and passionate, the weight of thousands of missed opportunities and the deafening roar of unspoken declarations pouring into every electric touch of our tongues. Our hands are everywhere, exploring the slopes and planes of one another’s bodies, the last plank in the bridge of intimacy finally nailed in place. We break apart with a gasp.   
“Cab?” he pants.   
“Cab.” I nod.   
We find one quickly and tumble into the backseat, sitting too close, unable to keep our hands or lips apart. The cabbie glances in the mirror once, then pointedly turns up the radio. Neither of us can be arsed to think twice about it.   
Sherlock throws the door to the flat open with a bang, making me jump, then dissolve into giggles again. He closes it firmly, then pushes me up against it, arms bracing on either side of my head. “John.” he says, and it’s a question, a promise, a declaration, all rolled into one. His eyes are burning, melting me with their intensity and I feel a twitch between my legs. I am no longer giggling. Our mouths find each other again and I feel my erection growing. He pushes his hips against mine and I can feel his as well. Holy hell. I match his hip movements, but our height difference makes it difficult to get good friction. I push against him with my hands, steering him toward his chair by the fireplace. Still kissing him, I let my hands trail down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt as I go and sliding shirt and jacket to the floor as we stumble across the floor. His knees catch the edge of the chair and he sits down heavily. I lean over him, planting my palms on the armrests of the chair. I don’t dare speak, knowing my voice will betray me. Inhibitions blurred by the booze, I slide down until I’m kneeling on the floor in front of him. I grip both of his knees and look up at him, asking silently for permission. His eyes widen and he nods slightly, propping his head up on his fist. I trail my fingers along his thighs, stopping for just a brief moment before undoing the clasp of his trousers. I fumble clumsily with the zipper, rubbing the fabric over the growing bulge more than is entirely necessary. I finally get it and tug them down to reveal black silk pants underneath. My own bulge jumps in response. I hook one finger over the top of his pants and glance up at him. He’s watching me closely, mouth slightly open. I tug the elastic waistband down and the bulge is now a fully erect cock, springing forth. Oh, god.  
Without pausing to think, I wrap my hand around and squeeze gently. He jolts and a small moan escapes. I slide my hand into my own pants and grasp myself. I slide my hands in unison, watching Sherlock’s face. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, breath coming in and out in short gasps. I smile bravely up at him before tipping my chin forward. Then, I think better of it and climb unsteadily to my feet. Something warm unfurls inside me at the look of utter disappointment on his face but I grab his hand and tug him towards his bedroom. My brain is screaming at me slowdown-abortmission-notgay but I shut it off, preferring to let my body do the decision making tonight. I let go of Sherlock’s hand once we’re inside and spin around to face him, our faces crushing together in another hungry kiss. We both gasp as our pelvises draw in, creating delicious friction against bare skin. We break apart and divest of our remaining clothing as fast as possible before collapsing, limbs splayed and tangled, onto the mattress. He shifts onto the pillows, propped up on one elbow and I immediately settle myself between his legs once again. I waste no time, grasping him firmly and eliciting another gasp. I stroke up and down slowly, watching him arc and writhe under my touch. He’s beautiful like this- long lines and sharp angles, skin like moonlight, dark lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks, elegant neck tipped back. It’s so arousing to me that I can make him come apart like this and I press myself down into the mattress. Feeling even bolder, I whisper his name. It comes out as a bit of a growl. His eyes open and he fixes me with his piercing stare, made even more intimidating by his blown-open pupils. I match his gaze, then lick my lips and quickly, before I lose my nerve, wrap them around his throbbing head.   
“AHHH. John! God. John.” He throws his head back and thrusts into my mouth. I swallow reflexively, and he whimpers, pulling his knees up. I push them back down with my elbows and slide my mouth down a bit further. He hisses and I look up. I want to watch him come apart under my touch. I slide my hands up his sides, as silky smooth as I always imagined and brush them over his chest, then down over his stomach. I grasp his hips and suck hard, three times, before pulling off completely.   
He moans and thrusts into the empty air, eyes screwed shut and hands twisted in the duvet. I slide up the length of his body, stopping when our cocks are perfectly aligned. I lick my hand and reach between us, but he closes his hand over mine.   
A low growl in my ear; “let me”.   
I do not argue.   
He slides a slick hand over and around, again and again, bringing us both close to orgasm before trailing his fingers down my spine and across my lower back. I shiver and rock against him.   
“J-John. I’m close. So close. Oh god, John!” He moans. The sound of my name in his mouth is enough to tip me over the edge. I grip his shoulders as my own orgasm finally crashes into me, my legs stiffening against his and a primal yell slipping out of my lips. We sag against each other, spent. I kiss him softly, suddenly feeling a bit shy. I climb off the bed and head towards the hallway, wanting to grab a flannel to clean us both up. He catches my wrist.   
“John?” A small smile tugs at his lips. He clears his throat as he sits up.   
“Yes, Sherlock?”   
“Was it good for you too?” And then the cheeky bastard winks at me. I roll my eyes and laugh.   
“Oh god yes.”   
His whole face lights up.   
“Happy Birthday, John”

**Author's Note:**

> *nervous laugh* so um...that's my first smut. It's a bit of a rush, to be honest. Not sure I need to write any more, now that I've gotten it out of my system, but ya never know :)


End file.
